Stubble
by Louise Hargadon
Summary: A little look at all of our boys tending to their ablutions. And having a shave - badabing! Just a silly little piece of something or other, but wholly inoffensive and features mostly naked Tracys. Started off just as a Gordon thing, but due to popular demand it will feature all five other Tracy men. Yes. That's right. I'm including Jefferson!
1. Gordon

_**A/N:**__ I don't know. This has just been going through my head for a while now and I felt now would be the time to write it. It isn't even long enough to be a story, it's just a… a thing. I don't know what the technical term is. It's longer than a drabble and shorter than a vignette (which I always thought was a salad dressing – who knew?!), I think. It's just a thing. I watched Operation Crash Dive again this morning and am still reeling from Gordon's unbridled manliness. This.. thing… has no plot and no purpose. I just thought I would. After all, as my Dad takes great pleasure in telling me, there is nothing in the world more quintessentially masculine than the act of shaving one's face._

_Dedicated to __**Teobi**__, who totally understands my stubble fixation._

_**Disclaimer:**__ I still don't own Thunderbirds but I do so love borrowing Gordon. I'll borrow another brother next time, I promise. Even if I do have the most fun with Gordon. Especially when he's varying degrees of naked._

**Stubble**

If there was one thing Gordon didn't miss about the world of swimming, it was waxing. He remembered threatening to tickle a beautician to death after she'd become a little overzealous while engaged in the task of waxing his chest. In her defence, she'd been a little distracted by his chest in the first place and hadn't realised how often - or thoroughly - she'd smoothed the wax strip down. To say that it hurt was something of an understatement. He was convinced he'd lost two or three layers of skin in the ordeal. There was a horrible, sore, red stripe down the middle of his perfectly sculpted torso for two weeks afterwards. As if that wasn't painful enough, he had then had to immerse his entire body, after it having been waxed to oblivion, into a chlorine infused swimming pool. His entire swimming career appeared to have been one constant tirade of itching, regrowth and a very uncomfortable stinging sensation all over his body.

Shaving, he thought to himself as he looked in the bathroom mirror, a clean white towel firmly girding his hips, was different. Shaving was man's work. A tough, macho guy - or even John - fearlessly dragging cold steel across his throat before his first coffee of the day. That required skills. Mad skills. Shaving was what separated men from boys. And girls too, he hoped.

Gordon was quite lucky in that he didn't actually need to shave every day. Not like Scott, who shaved at breakfast time and had five o'clock shadow by ten-thirty. Scott, Gordon thought to himself as he squeezed shaving gel onto his fingertips, was probably sponsored by Gilette.

"Listen, fellas," he began in a thick New York accent, pretending to be some business executive in attendance at one of Gilette's advertising meetings. "We need to add another blade to our razor heads. Scott Tracy still shaves twice a day. If we can get that walking shagpile looking smooth for an hour, guys, we can do anything! Ten blades, no bullshit!" he declared, pointing aggressively at the mirror.

He chuckled to himself and smoothed shaving gel across his face. "You're not destined for a life in advertising, Gee Cooper Tee," he told himself with a grin.

He remembered when he was young being absolutely fascinated by the movie Home Alone - he must have seen it about three million times. His dream was to be Kevin McCallister when he grew up. One night, when his father was out of town on business and his brothers were busy doing homework or seeing girls or doing whatever it was big brothers did after Alan had gone to bed, six-year-old Gordon had sneaked into his father's room and proceeded to re-create the scene where Kevin put his dad's aftershave on and screamed. He was sure that nothing on earth could possibly be painful enough to invoke that sort of reaction, as he cheerfully poured a small amount of Old Spice into his cupped palm before rubbing his hands together.

The moment his hands came into contact with his cheeks, he knew that he had made a terrible mistake.

The pain was unbearable. He tried his best not to scream. He didn't want anyone rushing in and finding him writhing around the floor in agony, his Perry the Platypus pyjamas askew. He growled, he ground his teeth and clenched his fists, he breathed quickly through his nose and panted through his gritted teeth as he flapped his little hands in front of his face, desperate to get some soothing cool air onto his cheeks. He used words he didn't even know he'd learned and certainly one or two that his grandmother would never have approved of.

Eventually he staggered into his father's en-suite bathroom, turned on the cold tap in the basin and filled it three-quarters full with cold water - hopping from foot to foot as he tried to not scream in pain. Then, taking a deep breath, he plunged his head into the basin and let out a sigh of relief as the cold water instantly soothed the burning sensation on his face.

"Gordon?" a voice had asked, sounding more confused than angry. Gordon immediately resurfaced, took a few deep breaths and turned to give his grandmother a winning smile.

"Grandma! Great to see you!" he told her, snapping his fingers and pointing at her as he threw her a cheeky wink.

"What are you doing?" his grandmother asked, frowning slightly.

Gordon paused for a moment, not sure how best to answer her perfectly logical question.

"Me?" he asked, looking up at her with wide, innocent eyes. His grandmother tilted her head to one side and folded her arms.

"Yes, you," she answered, firmly. "Don't stall for time with me, young man - don't forget, I raised your father!"

"I'm not stalling! Hah! What made you think that? I was, y'know. I was just seeing what it was like to be a fish," he told her, matter of factly, shrugging his shoulders.

"Oh really? Well then, young man, if you want to know what it's like to be a fish so much, I'll take you down to the local swimming pool tomorrow and see if we can get you signed up for some lessons. Maybe tiring yourself out in the water will make you realise that it's not always easy being a fish!" she decided.

"Really? Gee! Thanks, Grandma!" Gordon replied, enthusiastically, running over to hug her tightly and completely forgetting that his head and face were soaking wet. "You're the best!"

"I know, kiddo," she answered, hugging him back. She crouched down to his eye level and gave him a knowing look. "That aftershave stings pretty bad, doesn't it?" she asked, a grin playing on her lips and her eyes twinkling. Gordon blushed and nodded.

"No wonder Dad's always in a bad mood if he has to put that on his face every day!" he answered, seriously. His grandmother had chuckled and sent him to bed with no further argument.

Gordon laughed to himself at the memory. "The woman knows everything!" he muttered as he dragged the blade under his chin towards his lower lip. He still hated aftershave, just the smell of it was enough to make him break out in hives. He paused and pursed his lips in reflection. Macaulay Culkin may have been the subject of some bad press when he got older – but if it wasn't for him, Gordon may have never discovered his love for swimming in the first place.

"What a guy," he mumbled, nodding reverently.

He rinsed the remnants of shaving gel from his face and patted himself dry with a towel. He studied his face closely, making sure he hadn't missed a spot - he still laughed hysterically at the memory of Alan's brief flirtation with facial hair. Of all the fashion disasters that had ever befallen his younger brother, a moustache was possibly the worst-advised of all. Thankfully it only lasted for two weeks and quickly vanished, never to be spoken of again, after Tin-Tin had asked him if he'd like a saucer of milk for the gerbil above his lip.

After thoroughly moisturising his face and neck, he gave himself one last look in the mirror. He grinned and shot himself a brief wink.

"Go get 'em, big guy!" he told himself encouragingly as he finally left the bathroom. He stood with his hands on his hips looking at the mess around him and sighed. He would never be able to keep his room as fastidiously clean as John or Scott did - but sometimes he thought he might get ready a little faster of a morning if he could only remember where he'd left his jeans the night before...


	2. Scott

_**A/N: **__No, I'm not writing about Gordon. Yes, it feels unnatural. I won't be surprised if he elbows his way into the other chapters but today I am determined to be strong and resist. Of course, having to concentrate on Scott in varying degrees of naked is a pretty good distraction. Ahem._

_For those of you unfamiliar with my old multi-chapter TB stories - yes, I do always ship Scott and Tin-Tin. It's a thing. I've thought they were made for each other since I was about 7._

_**Disclaimer:**__ I still don't own any Tracys but I'd like my own Gordon pleasethankyou._

**Scott**

Scott Tracy, it was widely agreed and acknowledged, was a man who could withstand a lot of pressure.

As a high ranking officer in the US Air Force, he had helped to plan, negotiate and carry out various missions on behalf of his country which required a steady pulse rate and a level head. As Field Commander of International Rescue, he continually encountered situations that put the lives of both the rescuees and his beloved younger brothers in mortal danger. As a mortal man who shared the same house as the Terrible Two - Gordon and Alan Tracy - he needed nerves of steel and the patience of a saint.

There were, however, reasonable limits to everything.

Although International Rescue still ran, more or less, to a similar standard of discipline and timekeeping required in the military, Scott was no longer quite the 'five-mile run along the beach at six-thirty in the morning' guy he had been when he was Virgil's age. He was more the 'growl at the alarm clock and smash it against the wall' guy these days. Of course, his brothers teased him about it and told him he was getting old, fat and lazy - but only when they were out of his reach and close enough to a clear exit to get away safely with their jibes.

At six-fifteen sharp, when he finally crawled out from underneath his cosy duvet and staggered into his bathroom, grunting feebly with each step and mumbling a string of swear words to nobody in particular, he was not in the mood for anything to interrupt his usual pre-coffee regime.

After an invigorating Black Mint infused morning shower, he groped the air, his eyes still screwed shut, trying to locate a towel. He dried himself off and went back into his room to get dressed, pausing briefly as he was unable to resist drawing a smiley face with the tip of his index finger on the steamed-up bathroom mirror. As he roughly towel-dried his thick, touseled black hair, he realised that his hair was starting to get a bit too long, but he was damned if he was going to ever ask to borrow Tin-Tin's hairdryer. Besides, he lived on an island in the Pacific, he was pretty sure anyone's hair would dry up faster than Jeff Tracy's drinks cabinet at Christmas if they just sat out on the patio for ten minutes.

He buttoned up his low-waist jeans and sighed heavily before trudging back into the bathroom. Despite the teasing he received on a rather constant basis about him needing to shave at least twice a day, Scott hated shaving. He shaved because he had to, rather than because he wanted to. He knew that if a rescue call came in, people would probably feel a little more reassured about the whole situation if their anonymous rescuer was someone who didn't look like a cross between a hobo and the Missing Link. If it was down to him, he would have facial hair to rival Papa Smurf. He rubbed his hand across his jaw and raised an eyebrow. He nearly had that anyway.

Letting out another sigh and clasping his fingers together as he stretched his arms out in front of him, he returned to the bathroom and picked up the tin of shaving gel. He started singing softly to himself, trying to force some semblence of a feeling of merriment inside of him. It didn't quite compare to John's rousing renditions of 'Good Morning' from Singin' in the Rain, of course - and on reflection he wasn't too sure that 'Hurt' by Johnny Cash was the most appropriate of tunes to start his day with.

He looked a little disparagingly at his six-blade razor as he brought it up to his cheek. At last he dragged the blade across his face - and instantly groaned in frustration.

"TIN-TIN!" he yelled, angrily. Tin-Tin admittedly felt a little light-headed at the ferocity of his tone as she popped her head around the bathroom door, and her face lit up like Christmas when she saw Scott stood in front of her wearing just a pair of jeans. He didn't have quite the same level of definition to his torso as his semi-aquatic brother did, but in far more ways than she could count, she much preferred it. She thought it may have had something to do with the hair.

"What's wrong?" she asked, innocently, almost forgetting that he'd shouted for her.

"Don't 'what's wrong' me, young lady!" he told her sternly, gesticulating wildly with his razor. She gripped tightly onto the door jamb. _'Young lady!'_ "There are six men in this house - why do you have to pick on my razor? It has enough to do without you muscling in on it! And why can't you buy your own?!" he demanded. "Dad can't pay you that badly - I see a new batch of fetching swimsuits arrived for you yesterday morning!" he pointed out, gazing off distractedly for a brief moment before forcing himself to stay on topic.

"Oh, that!" she answered, waving her hand dismissively. "It was an emergency."

"When is shaving your legs ever an emergency?" he asked, sarcastically.

"Are you implying that you've forgotten yesterday afternoon aready?" she inquired, her eyebrows raised as she blinked at him once or twice. He flushed, but only from his temples upwards, as the rest of his face was still covered in shaving gel.

"Oh. I see," he mumbled, trying to maintain some degree of dignity. "Well. Even so..." he broke off and shrugged ineffectually.

"Do I get an apology?" she asked, a playful grin at the corners of her lips. He smirked at her.

"I'll think about it," he told her.

"In which case, I'll _'think'_ about showing you my new bikini later," she answered. His face lit up.

"Which one?" he asked.

"That depends on how well you apologise," she answered with a flirtatious giggle as she left the room.

Scott started whistling a merry tune to himself as he continued shaving. He had a blunt razor and his Bulgari Black aftershave was going to hurt like hell - but he had a feeling that if his peace-making negotiation skills were as sharp as he thought they were, there was a very real possibility that later on, Tin-Tin might remember that red bikini with the sequins she hadn't worn for a while!

It was only six-thirty and already his day had started to look up extraordinarily. In fact, he felt so good about the universe and life in general that he thought he might even go out for a five-mile run along the beach.


	3. Virgil

**_A/N:_**_ In one of our many serious and intellectual discussions on the subject of Thunderbirds (I can't even type that with a straight face), _**_Teobi_**_ and I agreed that if anything, Virgil is probably even hairier than Scott 'The Shagpile' Tracy. In fact, he probably hates shaving even more than Scott. Even if he is a dandy (or is he a fop? I can never remember). So, this is basically a reaction to that. There's also a hint towards a future return of the legendary comedy partnership that is Jefferson and Grandma._

_Dedicated with much love and affection to those well-known Virgil Girls, _**_JoTracy123_**_, _**_Elsa Jay_**_, _**_Florianderl_**_ and _**_Celandine Sandyman_**_._

**_Disclaimer: _**_No, I still don't own any Tracys. Yes, I'm still narked about it. Today I am borrowing Virgil._

**Virgil**

Most people who met and knew Virgil would have said that one of his greatest qualities was his mild-mannered, gentle spirit. In fact, one of the main reasons Virgil was chosen as pilot of Thunderbird 2 was his calm, relaxed manner and tone - which was perfectly suited to keeping people calm in the most stressful of circumstances.

Of course, most people never saw Virgil first thing of a morning before his fifth coffee. It was a time when most residents of the Tracy household knew that the best thing to do with Virgil was to just let him have easy access to the coffee machine and not make eye contact with him before he'd had sufficient caffeine and his morning shower.

Certain members of the Tracy family, however, liked to take the opportunity first thing of a morning to see exactly how much they could tease Virgil until he snapped. It never took very long, but they always felt it was worth it.

"Virgil, how many times do I have to tell you?" his grandmother began.

"Tell me what, Grandma?" Virgil asked, wearily. He was almost sorry he'd asked before he'd finished speaking.

"Go get a shave!" she demanded. Virgil's eyebrows shot up and he ran his hand protectively across his furry face.

"No!" he answered, firmly. He hated shaving and had managed to get away with not shaving for nearly three weeks. The ensuing sensation of freedom was incredible.

"Beards stopped being on trend in about 2040!" she told him. He sighed and shook his head in despair.

"You do know that nobody's said 'on trend' since about 2025, right?" he inquired. Her eyes hardened and Virgil suddenly realised exactly where his father got that steely soul-piercing glare from.

"Will you please go and do something about your face?" she asked. Virgil rolled his eyes.

"No! I don't see why I should!" he shot back at her. He fought with every fibre of his being not to fold his arms and pout at her. That was Alan's job, after all.

"Your grandmother's right, son," his father chipped in. Virgil's face dropped.

"Dad! What about male solidarity?" he protested, just as Gordon walked into the room. He let out a chuckle as he threw himself onto the sofa.

"Who are you kidding - 'male solidarity'? How many times do we have to tell you, Blossom? Nobody's fooled by the Abe Lincoln on your chin!" Gordon teased him. Virgil pulled himself to his full height and chose to ignore Gordon's comment.

"Virgil!" Jeff interrupted, sternly.

"Waitaminute! My brother hurls abuse at me and _I'm_ the one who gets _'Virgil'_?!" Virgil demanded, saying his name in a scarily good replication of his father's voice.

"If he was shouting at me he would've said _'Gordon'_," Gordon pointed out, helpfully, also impersonating his father at the end of his sentence.

"Shut up. Do as your grandmother tells you," Jeff insisted. Virgil frowned. There was a reason he hated mornings.

"Why should I?" he asked.

"Because I'm not having some bum who looks like a cross between Che Guevara and Jesus Christ go out in public to represent International Rescue!" his father answered, calmly. Grandma Tracy caught Gordon's eye at this particular juncture and both of them quickly turned away from each other and stared at the floor silently, desperately trying to control their giggles.

"But-"

"No 'buts', Virgil - either you go get a shave quietly like a reasonable human being, or I take you into your bathroom and shave you!" Jeff told him, firmly, the look in his eyes telling Virgil not to argue any more. Gordon let out a snort of mirth.

"You heard the man, Grissom - no butts! Hey, you hear that?" he asked, gesturing into the ether and making several low, plaintive cries out of the corner of his mouth. "That's the sound of gay men everywhere in mourning...!" he told Virgil, his tone grave but his eyes gleaming with mischief.

Virgil narrowed his eyes and growled softly at Gordon, who met his glare with a beaming smile.

"I swear to God I'm adopted," he grumbled, skulking out of the living room, slamming the door for effect and heading to his bedroom. Grandma, Jeff and Gordon looked at each other and promptly howled with laughter.

Grumbling obscenities under his breath and getting more angry by the moment, Virgil stormed into his bathroom and slammed the door behind him - again, mostly for effect. Moments later there was a knock on the door.

"WHAT?" he roared.

"Hey, buddy, it's me," Gordon began, in an apologetic, friendly and therefore, as Virgil knew, a dangerous tone, "I, uh... just wondered if you wanted me to get the lawnmower from the garage? We've not needed to use it since we moved to the Island, but now you're finally getting rid of the Wolfman look-"

"Piss off, Gordon!" he snapped. Gordon laughed.

"I could get Kyrano's secateurs from the greenhouse?" he suggested, helpfully. Virgil opened the bathroom door and threw a bottle of shampoo at Gordon's face, which he only just managed to dodge. "I'll come back when you decide," he finished, skipping off merrily. Virgil growled again and plugged his electric shaver in.

Using an electric shaver probably wasn't considered to be the most manly method of removing unwanted hair, but the way Virgil saw it, he was working smarter, not harder. He could have a hair-free face in three minutes whereas it took Scott ten minutes to de-fuzz twice a day. Besides, it was definitely more manly than John's early morning routine which usually involved some form of waxing and at least five different types of moisturiser, and that was before he added a few spots of face shimmer to accentuate his cheekbones.

Of course, in theory, this was all quite, quite true. In practice, it was a little different. Virgil was an artist through and through and couldn't bear the idea of shaving off strips of beard in a regimented, unimaginative manner. He spent the best part of fifteen minutes shaving various patterns and swirls into his beard until he almost looked like a Maori warrior. He did briefly toy with the idea of leaving his beard like that, and even continuing downwards and shaving swirly patterns into his chest hair, but then thought better of it.

"Grandma'd have my balls for earrings," he muttered with a shudder.

Just as he'd almost calmed down from his earlier confrontation with Gordon, there was another tap at his bathroom door. He instantly leapt to the defensive again as he readied himself for another battle of wits with his younger brother.

"No! No, I don't need a hedge trimmer for my sideburns! I don't require an industrial strength vacuum to clean up all the hair on the bathroom floor! I just need to be left alone so I can get dressed in peace!" he ranted, flinging the door open and forgetting completely in his anger two things. Firstly, and most importantly, he still had swirly patterns engraved into his face. Secondly, and far more embarrassingly - he'd already undressed in order to get into the shower after his shave.

To most people, and particularly to the discerning female population, the sight of a very naked Virgil Tracy would likely be a rather welcome one. To his youngest brother, however, it bordered on being the singularly most traumatic experience of his entire life.

"Jesus, Virgil!" Alan shrieked, horrified, shielding his tender young eyes with his hands.

"Christ, Alan, what the hell do you want?" Virgil demanded, half closing the door in front of him to protect the precious remnants of his dignity that were left.

"Forget it! It's fine, forget it! Oh, GOD! MY EYES!" Alan howled, clearly pained. Virgil rolled his eyes.

"You just wait till you hit puberty, kiddo, you'll probably get hairs of your own one day," he answered, attempting to look aloof. It was not a look that easily loaned itself to being matched with a swirly beard.

Alan, still covering his hands with his eyes, staggered out of Virgil's room, bashing into either side of the door frame on his way out.

"What's the matter with you?" Virgil heard Tin-Tin ask Alan. Alan cried out in turmoil again.

"Virgil's in there!" he answered.

"It _is_ his bathroom," Tin-Tin pointed out.

"He's naked in there!" Alan wailed. Virgil could practically hear Tin-Tin grinning.

"Does he need anyone to scrub his back for him?" she asked, throatily, barely able to contain her laughter. Alan moaned and started making retching noises.

"You're all sick in this house! All of you! Sick!" he declared, scurrying off somewhere - most likely somewhere far, far away from Virgil. Virgil grinned and chuckled to himself before closing his bathroom door and locking it tightly. He looked at himself in the mirror and jumped back a little. He kept forgetting about the beard.

"No wonder the kid's terrified," he mumbled to himself as he picked up his shaver again. He looked at his beard for a few moments and let out a sign of resignation. "Well... it was fun while it lasted!" he decided, before returning himself to his former clean-shaven glory.


	4. John

**_A/N: _**_Blasted Writer's Block. It's the bane of my life. Anyway, I am determined to finish these oneshots if it kills me. Which is likely. My apologies to everyone who was waiting so patiently for the John Chapter. I think you might like this. At least, I hope you do. I like to think of this particular chapter as a documentary/editorial section on How To Achieve True Girly-Manliness. Imagine this being narrated by David Attenborough...!_

_Dedicated with love to _**_Teobi_**_, _**_Darkflame's Pyre_**_ and _**_LexietFive_**

**_Disclaimer: _**_Still no news from Gerry about my proposal for a 50% timeshare in Gordon._

**John**

If there is one thing to be said about John Tracy's morning routine, it is that it is meticulous. On Thunderbird Five, the days go slowly and so it doesn't matter if he takes ten minutes or two hours to get ready of a morning. He usually takes around an hour and a half. After all, who is he going to share his bathroom with? Where is his motivation to hurry? For early morning self-titivation, one needs a clear head, a calm mind and no housemates. Thunderbird Five is, therefore, the perfect location to see John's full routine in progress. It truly is a sight to behold.

If you were to ask John about his pre-public morning activities, he would tell you that in the absence of his absolute favourite start to the day - at which point he would allow himself the tiniest of self-satisfied smirks that you'd only just notice in time to realise what he meant - he would usually enjoy a nice cup of coffee in bed before heading to the bathroom. "This," he would say, gesturing his smooth yet firm hand gracefully from the tip of his head and then downwards to indicate his entire body, "Doesn't just _happen_, you know."

No, indeed. Looking as good as John takes time and effort.

First, the shower. It's very important to ensure that the shower gel used is invigorating enough to fully awaken him in order to concentrate fully on the subsequent art of shaving. Virgil is right. It's an art, not a science. Of course, if the aforementioned shower gel has micro-granules in it, so much the better. Moisturising unexfoliated skin is extraordinarily laborious. To that end, he always makes sure that he scrubs himself down thoroughly with a good shower puff, regardless of the desquamating properties in his shower gel.

Then, the shampoo. John uses shampoo specially formulated for blond hair. After all, one's hair is one's crowning glory, and when one has hair as soft, shiny and naturally golden as John's, one needs to take very good care of it. He conditions once a month, as any more than that and he finds that his hair becomes too soft to be sufficiently manageable.

After showering, he roughly towel dries his hair before combing it carefully in front of the mirror. It is essential that the parting in his hair is exactly one and a half inches left of centre. He once attempted to part his hair on the right and felt incredibly uncomfortable all day. His family kept looking at him in confusion, wondering exactly what was different about him. Ever since that day, he has always made sure that his parting remains firmly on the left. Don't ever ask him if he'd prefer a centre parting, though - he'll just narrow his eyes derisively at you and shake his head in despair, not even bothering to dignify the preposterous question with a response. If he had a centre parting, what would happen to his trademark curl in the centre of his forehead? It would disappear! This would be disastrous, not only for John's mental well-being, but for everyone else as well. There would be no prior warning to the world at large that if John is being good, he's being very, very good, but when he's being bad, he's being terribly naughty indeed!

Fortunately for his face, John doesn't need to shave more than twice a week. He hates stubble regrowth and so he takes his time over a very close shave. He uses a moisturising shaving gel and then, after checking a few times to make sure his sideburns are of equal lengths, he rinses his face in tepid water. Then he will spend a few moments checking that his eyebrows are perfectly shaped, plucking out any stray hairs with a precision pair of tweezers before carefully coating his face with a deeply moisturising, anti-wrinkle day cream. Scott once said that John has a face like Teflon - so smooth not even a gecko could stick to it.

A touch of patchouli and sandalwood scented eau de toilette, and he is finally ready to get dressed. Well. Most days, he would go straight on to getting dressed. However, half-way through his time on Thunderbird Five, John takes a little extra time to do something very special indeed.

John, as most people are aware, shares the duty of manning Thunderbird Five with his youngest brother, Alan. However, due to his previous engagements as a racing driver, Alan was absent during most of the design work that was done on Thunderbird Five. As a result, there is one particular feature of the space station that only two people know about - John and Brains. John well remembers the conversation he had with Brains about installing the feature.

_"A-a-are you s-sure it isn't going to be, uh, s-s-sup-superf- a little excessive?" Brains had asked. John's perfectly manicured eyebrows knitted together in a frown._

_"Whatever could you mean, Brains?"_

_"Oh, n-nothing, it's j-just this space station is supposed to be purely b-b-business related!" he explained. John's eyebrows relaxed momentarily before he slowly arched his left eyebrow and tilted his chin slightly upwards as he cast an appraising look at Brains._

_"If I'm going to be living there a month on and a month off, I want at least _some_ of the comforts of home," he pointed out. Brains looked helplessly at him._

_"This isn't a home c-comfort, it's an on-deck beauty s-salon!" he protested. _

_"You're saying it as though there are plenty of beauty s-salons in space!" John answered, wincing a little inside as he hadn't really meant to tease Brains for his stammer. Brains sighed and shrugged, unable to argue with his logic._

_"Mr T-Tracy won't like it!" he protested. John grinned wolfishly and draped his arm around Brains' shoulders conspiratorially._

_"Let's just keep this our little secret, then. Who's gonna know about it but me?" he pointed out. _

Deep within the bowels of Thunderbird Five, behind a secret panel in what John termed the central nervous system of his beloved 'Bird, there is a door. Behind that door is another door - and behind _that_ door is a room. A large, spacious room that smells strongly of chemicals and coconut oil. John travels down there on the second Thursday of every month he's on duty. He drops his towel, strides purposefully towards a switch on the wall and chooses the option that reads "Healthy Glow". He then stands in the middle of the room, closes his eyes and waits.

Minutes later, he emerges from the room with a perfect coating of fake tan, which will be well ingrained into his skin by the time he returns home. After all, no man can legitimately work on topping up his tan while in geostationary orbit.

However, John is no ordinary man. He is refined, dapper and resplendent in a way so effeminate that only a man truly comfortable in his own masculinity could possibly carry it off. He is like the metrosexuals of the early part of the 21st Century. John Tracy, with his devil-may-care charm and knowing gleam of mischief behind those lustrous blue eyes, is so much more than an ordinary man. He is a girlish man - and he's absolutely fine with that.

A word of warning though - if you interfere with any of his hair products, the modern-day Beau Brummel will quickly be replaced by a seething testosterone-fuelled rage monster...


	5. Alan

_**A/N: **I must admit, although it was very tempting to write another deathfic where Alan accidentally decapitates himself with an electric shaver, not even I am that cruel where Alan is concerned. He's just pointless, he isn't evil. _

_Not dedicated to anyone in particular as I know that no Alan fans read my stories on principle, and frankly I don't blame them, I know I wouldn't read anything by anyone who frequently bashed Gordon! But if you like it, it's for you._

_**Disclaimer:** Gerry Anderson still owns Thunderbirds. I own very little in comparison. Although I do own all the DVDs and a Tracy Island. And two talking Scotts. And a Gordon jigsaw puzzle. And a talking TB1. And a TB2 complete with TB4... ooh, and a big TB4! So yeah, actually, I DO own Thunderbirds, dammit! I'm taking my liberties and I'm using 'em!_

**Alan**

When Alan was very young, a lot of people asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. He always came back with the same answer.

_"A big boy."_

He wasn't being clever or facetious, of course, he just wanted to be big and strong boy - like his father. He didn't think there was a more masculine thing to do than to get shaved. He used to sit on the side of the bath, agog as he watched his father shave every morning. He would always have a million questions, usually the same ones. _"Does it hurt?" "How do you know when you're meant to shave again?" "Does everyone shave in the morning instead of the evening?" "When did you start shaving?" "When can I start shaving?"_

Eventually, one day, Jeff lost his patience.

"Alan, you're nearly sixteen years old!" he began with a sigh. "Can't you go annoy Scott instead?"

"He said to go annoy you," Alan answered.

"How about Virgil?"

"He said to go annoy Scott."

"Gordon?"

"No way, Dad! Gordon? He'd just laugh and make jokes at me. I'm not stupid!" Alan answered. Jeff didn't answer straight away, he just stared at Alan, blinking in dumbfounded amazement. "What?"

"Nothing. What about that shaving kit I bought you for your fourteenth birthday?" he asked. Alan's shoulders dropped.

"It's in my room," he muttered.

"You've still not used it?" Jeff inquired. Alan shook his head. "Why not?"

"Because, Dad, he sold it at school for crack cocaine! Yeah that's right, I went there!" a cheerful voice piped up as Gordon burst into the bathroom. Jeff closed his eyes, took a deep breath, held it and counted to ten.

"I'm thinking of getting my bathroom door replaced with a turnstile, what do you think?" he finally asked, dryly.

"That isn't very hygienic, Dad," Alan answered, seriously. Jeff looked at Gordon helplessly. Gordon nodded his understanding and grinned reassuringly at his father. As much as Jeff appreciated the intent, he never felt too reassured by the thought of Gordon taking over an already stressful situation.

"Leave it with me, big fella," Gordon told his father, patting him comfortingly on the shoulder. "C'mon, kiddo, you can come watch the fortnightly routine of me getting a shave if you like," he offered.

"You? Every time you shave you come out of the bathroom with toilet paper all over your face! It's like the Texas Chainsaw Massacre at Blood Valley in there!" Alan answered. Gordon raised both eyebrows as he couldn't just raise one like John could.

"There's no such film, idiot," he replied, loftily, before dragging his younger brother out of his father's bathroom. "You gotta get over this, Alan. It's weird," he told him, firmly.

"What's weird?"

"Your obsession over Dad shaving. Everyone does it. I don't see you going into the bathroom when Grandma's legs need mowing!" Gordon joked. "You don't see any of us coming and sitting on the end of the bath when you take a shave!"

Alan looked at the floor uncomfortably and sighed. Gordon frowned as he stared at the top of his brother's head.

"That's it, isn't it?" he asked. Alan turned a definite shade of beetroot. "You haven't started shaving yet, have you?" Alan looked up, glaring violently at Gordon.

"Don't!" he warned him.

"Don't what?"

"Laugh at me."

"Laugh at you?" Gordon repeated, a little hurt. "Why would I laugh at you?"

"Because I'm not a man yet. You did it when you were fourteen. Scott did it when he was twelve. Jesus, Gordon, even John does it!" Alan told him. Now it was Gordon's turn to turn pink.

"Man, I hope you're still talking about shaving," he muttered.

"See! You're laughing at me!" Alan protested. Gordon shook his head.

"C'mon, Al, don't get your panties in a wad," he began. "It's nothing to worry about. You're not abnormal just because you don't shave yet!" he reassured him. Alan looked at him, unsure of what to say.

"I'm not?" he asked.

"No! Not at all. That's the last thing anyone'd put on their list of Reasons Why Alan Tracy's Not Normal!" Gordon told him with a grin. Alan rolled his eyes and turned to walk off, but Gordon grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back. "Hey, it was a joke!"

"Hilarious," Alan replied, sarcastically, crossing his arms in front of his chest defensively and sticking his lower lip out in a spectacular pout.

"Aw, c'mon, don't be such a girl! It might just be because you're blond. John only shaves once a month, between times he just uses a sheet of sandpaper to keep those cheekbones of his smooth and shiny," Gordon told him. Alan frowned.

"Well, what the hell does he _do_ for an hour in the bathroom every morning?" he asked. Gordon shrugged.

"I don't even wanna know," he answered, shivering involuntarily. "Listen, it'll happen, one day. Then it'll just be a boring thing you try to get out of doing so you can grow some manly stubble and try to talk with a deep voice to make chicks like you more."

"Really?" Alan asked, doubtfully.

"Promise. Ask every girl who I gave stubble rash to in high school. There were _dozens_."

"There were five," Alan sighed. Gordon shrugged dismissively.

"Five more than you've got at high school! Of course, after a while you learn that just being yourself, making a girl laugh and being comfortable with the sexy guy you are inside is way more manly than whether or not you shave twice a day like Scott," Gordon told him.

"Really?" Alan asked, doubtfully.

"Sure. Maybe not you, personally - but definitely me," Gordon answered with a grin. Alan punched him playfully in the arm, instigating a play fight that resulted in two broken ornaments, a small hole in the living room wall and an eighteen-year-old Gordon actually being grounded for a week.

Eventually, of course, Alan did start shaving - and he discovered to his amazement that his brother was right. He did end up trying to get out of doing it as much as he could. It was boring, mundane and his face _really_ itched for an hour or two afterwards. More disappointing than that was that he still, even after shaving for a few years, didn't feel particularly manly. Not the way he expected to, nothing like his father. There again, he supposed he was still quite young, and his father did raise five sons more or less on his own.

Perhaps that was the trouble?

"Tin-Tin?" he asked, suddenly, as the idea came to him one quiet night when Tin-Tin and Gordon were play fighting over who got control of the remote. He hadn't shaved for a week or so and was building up some rather serious stubble.

"What is it?"

"Do you think I'd be more manly if I had a child?" he asked. Gordon and Tin-Tin looked at each other and let out a snort of laughter.

"You do know it's women who have children, don't you?" Gordon replied. Alan rolled his eyes.

"Yes, Gordon, I did study Biology at school."

"Are you worried people will think you're gay because of the George Michael stubble on your face?" Gordon inquired, seriously. Tin-Tin shouted with laughter and punched him in the arm. "See, you've got to get a woman beat me up!" he protested, rubbing his arm in faux agony.

"Don't be mean!" she scolded him. "Why do you want a child, Alan?" Tin-Tin asked. "You know if you have a child it means you have to have sex, right?" she pointed out.

"With a _woman_!" Gordon added, helpfully. "You'd have to get, y'know. Naked. She'd have to see whatever it is you carry around in your pockets."

"What is it you carry around in your pockets, Alan?" Tin-Tin asked, innocently. Gordon chuckled.

"A model Ferrari, a copy of Top Gear magazine and some bubblegum trading cards," he answered. She giggled.

"You want to see?" Alan offered. Gordon's face fell and he slammed the palm of his hand into his face.

"Oh no, you didn't!" he mumbled, physically pained. At least he knew Tin-Tin could quite easily take care of herself in these sort of situations.

Tin-Tin shot Gordon a wink and left the couch. She sashayed over to where Alan was sitting and purposefully leaned over him so that the heady aroma of her vanilla perfume filled his senses and all he could see were her bosoms. She leaned in close to him, stroked his stubbled face gently and whispered softly into his ear.

"You want to learn to walk before you try to run, little porcupine!"

She stood up, smiled playfully, turned away from him and left the room, leaving him with a face like thunder. Gordon couldn't help but giggle at his brother's grumpy face.

"I bet she would've said 'yes' if you'd taken a shave," he told him. Alan looked at him doubtfully.

"You think so?"

"You could always give it a try," Gordon answered, sincerely.

Wordlessly, Alan got up and practically ran towards his bathroom to de-fuzz his face. Gordon watched him leave, lay out on the couch and sighed contentedly to himself.

"Sucker!" he muttered, barely able to contain his mischievous grin.


	6. Jeff

_**A/N: **This is it, The End, Le fin, El finito, V kontse, etcetera etcetera etcetera... It's been fun and I'm sorry I keep getting distracted with other stuff (i.e. Home from the Sea. End of shameless plug!). But finally, in the words of the man himself, "All good things must come to an end. What are you gonna show me now?!" Seriously, anyone who says Jeff and Penny didn't have a thing going on aren't watching the right episodes! Well, I'm gonna show you what Jeff's like when he's naked and in a good mood. That's right, I went there!_

_Dedicated with hugs to the only lady I know who is 100% Team Jefferson - **Tikatu**. Hope you like it! _

_**Disclaimer: ** Apparently I'm not allowed a 50% share in Gordon. I dunno, just because I described him as 'a sort of ginger Ryan Lochte'...! Damn you, Gerry! _

**Jeff**

It was a tough business, being in charge of two international organisations. Tracy Enterprises and International Rescue both needed a strong, able-bodied man to be at the helm. There was no doubt that Jefferson Grant Tracy was, in all ways possible, a strong and able-bodied man.

Sometimes, though, even the most able of men needed a little time on their own for quiet contemplation. Jefferson was no exception. He needed a place far away from the woes of the world, where people didn't need rescuing, nobody needed his signature for anything and where he could just spend a pleasant fifteen or twenty minutes not being Mr Tracy or Dad - he could just be plain old Jeff. He could relax, recouperate and ready himself physically and mentally for whatever the rest of his day had to throw at him.

After his leisurely breakfast and umpteen cups of coffee, Jeff leaned back in his chair, stretched out until his neck, elbows and knees cracked, and he yawned contentedly.

"Well this isn't getting anything accomplished," he said to himself. "Let's get this day underway! Jefferson Is Go!"

"Who on earth are you talking to?" his mother demanded, standing behind him with her hands on her hips. Jeff practically jumped out of his skin and let out a shriek of fright.

"Mother!" he yelped.

"'Mother'? You weren't talking to me!" his mother answered. "Right, you sitting there all day isn't going to get you anywhere, go and get dressed, young man."

"Mother. I'm fifty-six years old. I run two international companies. I have five children of my own who still live with me. I think I can manage to organise my morning routine unaided."

"Then stop talking to yourself like a madman and get out of my breakfast room," his mother answered, completely unimpressed by his rant. Jeff stood up, a little defeated.

"If we're going to get technical, it's _my_ breakfast room," he told her. She narrowed her eyes at him.

"If we're going to get technical, I'm your mother and I still outrank you! Quit with the backchat!" she ordered, pointing in the general direction of his bedroom. "Don't forget to wash behind your ears!" she called after him, unable to surpress a shout of laughter at the end of her sentence.

Jeff closed his eyes and counted to ten silently before heading to his room to get ready. He closed the bathroom door behind him, leaned heavily against it and sighed. He had to be the only man in his mid-fifties who still got ordered around by his mother.

"Maybe it's not too late to get her into a nursing home," he mused, before sighing again and shaking his head in resignation. "She'd only orchestrate an elaborate escape and wreak havoc onto an unsuspecting public, they'd probably blow up a hospital, International Rescue'd be called in... it's too much hassle. No, I'm stuck with her until we bury her."

Before he allowed himself to start casually contemplating matricide, he got into the shower and switched the radio on. Jeff was the only man out of all the Tracys, including Virgil, who loved to sing in the shower. He fancied himself as something of a Frank Sinatra type and loved to belt out a couple of his more famous numbers while soaping himself down. The opening bars to his favourite song began and Jeff let out a groan of delight.

"Aw, Frankie, how did you know?!" he muttered, turning the volume up to the maximum.

The sweet sounds of _Fly Me To The Moon_ could be heard wafting through Tracy Villa, accompanied half a beat out of time by Jeff's dulcet baritone.

"_Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars... doo dee dum dee dah de dah on Jupiter and Mars...!_" he sang with gay abandon, scrubbing the back of his neck and shoulders.

Virgil sat at his piano and leaned his forearm heavily on his keys, then rested his forehead on his arm.

"Grandma, tell me I got Mom's singing voice," he begged. She raised an eyebrow at him.

"I'm sorry, Virgil, but you're all Tracy," she replied, shaking her head.

"_In other words, hooold my haaand... in other words... baaaaaaaaby kiss meee...!_" Jeff crooned.

"Say, Dad sounds in a good mood," Scott declared, walking into the room with a cup of coffee in his hand. Virgil looked up at Scott, fixed him with a withering glare and started playing the Funeral March on the piano.

Jeff, of course, was blissfully unaware of their conversation and let out a whoop of delight when the next song to be played on the radio turned out to be _That's Amore_ by Dean Martin. He subsequently proceeded to belt that out at the top of his voice, imagining that he was on stage at Carnegie Hall.

"Oh, crap!" Mrs Tracy groaned, burying her face in her hands. Virgil gasped.

"Grandma!" he chided her. She glared at him.

Eventually, Jeff finished his imaginary concert and got out of the shower after three encores and a standing ovation to brush his teeth and shave. He continued humming various swing classics to himself during his shave and even started wiggling his hips in time to the music that was still playing in his head as he carefully continued dragging cold steel fearlessly across his throat.

He grimaced as he patted Old Spice onto his freshly shaved skin, but the stinging sensation didn't last for too long and, after combing his hair carefully in the mirror, he stood back and briefly admired his handiwork.

"Still got it, big fella," he told himself with a wink as he went into his room to get dressed.

His peculiarly good mood was still in place after he'd dressed himself and started dancing along the corridor, still with _Fly Me to the Moon_ stuck firmly in his head.

"_You are all I long for, all I worship and adore_," he sang softly.

"Good morning, Mr Tracy," Tin-Tin greeted him with a smile.

"Good morning, Tin-Tin, it's a beautiful day," he told her, cheerily. She nodded.

"You seem in a particularly good mood today," she pointed out. He beamed at her.

"Tin-Tin, I feel great - I think today is going to turn out just swell," he replied. Without further conversation, he swept her up in his arms and proceeded to waltz her into the living room, much to everyone's amazment.

"Mr Tracy!" she exclaimed, a little breathlessly.

"_In other words, pleeease be truuuueee... In other words, Iiiiii looooove yoooouuuu!_" he sang, twirling Tin-Tin around the living room floor and finishing into a spectacular dip.

Virgil couldn't help himself from bursting out into spontaneous applause. When Jeff finally released his grasp on Tin-Tin, Scott absentmindedly pulled her close to him, mouth agape and his eyes bulging out of his head in surprise. He didn't think he'd ever seen his father so happy in his life.

"Oh! Mr Tracy!" she sighed, not altogether sure that she wasn't swooning a little.

"Thank you, Tin-Tin. Now then, I think it's time for Coffee Number Nine," he declared, strolling merrily into the kitchen. Tin-Tin looked up at Scott, who was still utterly flabbergasted.

"I tell you something, Scott, your father has certainly still got it!" she told him. "You want to take a few tips from him about sweeping a girl off her feet!" Scott blinked a few times, still unsure whether or not he was actually awake.

"I dunno about him having got it, Tin-Tin - I'm pretty sure he's starting to lose it!" he answered, scratching his head in confusion.

**THE END**


End file.
